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Moon
- Joined
- Feb 4, 2014
On damp, English days like this, a small part of Erik Weiss wished that the bullet hadn't missed its target.
The former SS officer he had tracked down in Argentina had been trembling when he had made the desperate move to fire his pistol - and rightly so, the man's shoulder was practically dislocated at the time and Weiss had been in no mood for clemency. The British had contracted him to bring back the war criminals for trial - however they never specified the condition in which they should be returned.
Many of them had fled from Germany to South America, seeking out refuge under a cloak of forged anonymity, hiding in the dense jungles that enveloped the continent. Most did little else to cover their tracks, their harsh German influxes butchering the native tongue to such painful extent – like snarling wolves trying to lull the same language as sheep. They sweat more profusely in the exotic heat than those who belonged or had grown accustom to the temperature – though if their perspiration was derived from the weather or from festering guilt – if they could even feel such a human emotion – was a question answered only by God.
In little over ten years, Weiss had tracked down seven Reich fugitives while working alongside MI6. He excelled in his position as an agent, earning a dual reputation as both a ruthless tracker and a gentleman. When the contracts were given, he never flipped past the first page. His people had been only numbers to the Reich - faceless, nameless cattle – meat for the grinder. They were insignificant, and any factors of their lives mattered not to those who had been hell bent on their genocide.
Weiss extended them the same courtesy.
In his heart, he knew that he should rise above their violence – their blatant lack of humanity. The world would not benefit from more cruelty. He had agreed to cooperate with the British after the war because he felt if he was on a more rational, restricted path, that he could restrain the boiling sense of injustice that he was certain would provoke him down a path of vigilantism. During the occupation, he subverted the Nazi’s violence with compassion – working with the resistance to shelter and save as many lives as possible – but rage had gotten him caught and sent to the camps.
In 1944, when the Allies liberated Hitler’s extermination grounds, Erik had sworn to himself that he would not let his anger confine him again.
In late 1954, he faltered.
That man in Argentina he recognized from long ago – a crooked smirking face on the opposite side of barbed wire; always accompanied by several men clad in gas masks, who hummed classical music as he sniffed through the fresh and decomposing corpses for more specimens.
Of the actual incident, Erik could recall very little. The reports plainly stated that Agent Weiss had experienced a brief moment of “bull sight”– a glossed term that meant he had used excessive force and acted on emotions rather than reason. It was true. The bar where he had located the man looked more reminiscent of a raid scene than the near spotless work of an experienced Agent. In the blistering heat, the stench of suffering and death resurfaced in his memory – and that damn smirking face …
In the middle of the fray, there had been a sudden, sharp pain on the left side of Weiss’ neck – it had burned significantly and the sensation spread rapidly through his body until his extremities felt numb. A bitter, metallic taste of blood surged up from the back of his throat, swelling nearly up to his eyes – and then… Mozart’s 22nd symphony; the arch had been wetly hissed as his vision went dark.
When he came to, he was in London and three days had past. His mission, failed. Weiss however, was too valuable to the organization to be put out to pasture for good. He was given a year recovery before his field work would resume.
It took several months of therapy before he was able to speak clearly again– a thick scar and occasional slur the only external reminders of his failure – that, and the sudden, overwhelming lack of a schedule. A farmer’s son, Erik had rarely known a day without work – and now he was faced with seven months of nothing. The very thought made him sick to his stomach, though that well could have been a side effect of the pain medications.
The month leading up to the half year point was eaten up by self-motivated training – exercise, refining his foreign languages, hell he had even taken up a bi-weekly chess match with one of the deskie’s (another former Agent injured in the line of duty, now confined to the walls of HQ) that he had known from his initiation period…anything to make the time pass quickly.
But time crawled, at an agonizingly slow pace – and by the start the sixth month, Erik was stir crazy.
Simon Leigh, his deskie friend, had mentioned during one of their matches that an offer had just been posted to their division by a film production company. “Apparently that Ian Flemming bloke’s collaborated on a film script,” He had said in passing, tongue flickering over his chapped lips as his eyes repeatedly scanned the playing board for any open paths, “They’re looking for someone to train the actor playing Bond how to act like an authentic spy. Isn’t that a kick in the seat? Why don’t they just hire one of us!” His fingers nervously feathered over the King piece, “Suppose we aren’t fancy enough for the silver screen. Bloody James Bond. Most boring name I’ve ever heard…Oh! But I hear Marilyn Monroe’s signed on to be the leading lady!”
That name had caught Weiss’ attention.
The closest movie theatre when he was growing up was hours away from the family farm – and throughout his young adulthood, movies were an expense he could rarely afford. But even a novice film fan would know the name Marilyn Monroe. An ethereal American blonde with a wispy voice, sculpted curves and an innate talent that surpassed those well beyond her years – it was difficult to believe she was a living, breathing soul.
The thought lingered throughout the span of the game – a passing interest at first, something that had intrigued him more than he expected. Marilyn Monroe, here in England. He balled up his fist, leaning on his elbow, pressing his chin to his knuckles to conceal a boyish smirk tugging at his lips. Finally, after twenty four minutes, Simon moved his King piece to the adjacent square. Erik marked him in checkmate immediately and promptly left to contact the production company that had coaxed the angel from her spot in heaven.
The company’s casting director Jasper Leads, who had posted the request, had been delighted to hear from him. Apparently their leading man James Freeman, an up and coming star transferring from stage to screen, conveyed his lines effortlessly with all the charm one would expect from a suave 00 – but his physical delivery was simply not up to par. Allegedly, Mr. Freeman couldn’t believably conceive of the situations his character came up against, and the choreography for the scenes felt too stiff and scripted. They were in desperate need of a “personal touch,” someone to add some oil to Freeman’s otherwise stiff mechanical limbs – and also someone to serve as an accuracy consultant for the time frame as well as for the MI6 organization.
Two weeks into shooting Bond’s solo scenes, Erik felt that the script was relatively sound in terms of its portrayal; however stiff limbs were the least of James Freeman’s problems. For a renowned Shakespearean stage performer, Freeman fell extraordinarily flat. On countless occasions scenes were halted mid shoot because he had “lost the moment” and needed to re-center himself – which more often than not meant drinking a glass of bourbon and taking a nap in his dressing room.
The Friday that Marilyn was due to arrive was one such occasion.
The entire production company was in a flutter, as if the Queen herself were making a private visit. Even Erik had found himself caught up in the flurry of perfection, spending an extra few moments in the mirror that morning making certain he was more presentable than usual. At 6 foot even, he had never held difficulty being noticed in a crowd, nor had he ever remained a stranger to the opposite sex. His colleagues in the agency had fancied to calling him the "statue" - his height playing its recognizable part in that allotted title, albeit Weiss also had a particularly sculpted look about him that made him seem nearly carved from a flesh tinted stone. His jawline and cheekbones were highly pronounced, his muscles finely sculpted despite the bout of undernourishment experienced during the occupation. He had combed his reddish-brown hair back neatly to the side and fastened a white shirt with a higher collar to conceal the jagged scar curled around the front of his throat. Khaki slacks were tucked into military style brown boots that matched his standard issued jacket.
He told himself it was his duty as a representative of MI6 and this production to at least attempt to smooth over Freeman's faults, and that his extra grooming was only partially for Monroe.
Yet still he found himself curiously unsettled as he made his way to the reading room. Nervous was not quite the word - Erik was never nervous. Uncertain, perhaps? Perplexed even, as to why this woman's arrival had roused such a reaction within him. It was not an unwelcome reaction - on the contrary, the stirring warmth made his numb heart feel like there was blood coursing through it once again.
The Director had summoned him, like the other members of the crew and cast, though he was also a standby should Freeman decide he was not quite ready to wake from his second nap of the morning. As he passed through the doors, hands tucked calmly behind his back, he noted the Director at the head of the round table, dabbing his forehead with an overused kerchief. The actors had already taken their seats, the wardrobe and make up girls gossiped in huddle groups - everyone seemed to be buzzing with an unusual amount of energy for such a dreary day on the set of an already exhausting film.
Erik crossed the room quietly to take a place beside Jasper Leads. Like a neurotic white rabbit, he fidgeted with his tarnished pocket watch, looking up from behind thick glasses when his personal space suddenly was no longer his own. The jittery man relaxed however upon noticing Weiss, his thin lips twitching up over small teeth. "Today's the day, mn?" He mused, stuffing the watch back inside of his pocket - fingers still wrapped tightly around the chain.
"It would seem so," Erik smiled gently, uncrossing his arms briefly to adjust the cuffs of his sleeves, "I do hope she's not overwhelmed by all of this,"
"Oh nonsense," Jasper scoffed, rolling back on his heels as his beady black eyes scanned the room, “Our little circus is probably a walk in the park compared to what she’s experienced in America. Besides, why on earth would she be nervous?”
“I doubt I would ever be at ease having a swarm of people waiting for my arrival,” Erik shifted his jaw somewhat, crossing his arms back behind himself, tensing his shoulders and straightening posture – he glanced again towards the giggling girls, clutching their photos of Marilyn. His brow creased in thought – It must be exhausting..
The former SS officer he had tracked down in Argentina had been trembling when he had made the desperate move to fire his pistol - and rightly so, the man's shoulder was practically dislocated at the time and Weiss had been in no mood for clemency. The British had contracted him to bring back the war criminals for trial - however they never specified the condition in which they should be returned.
Many of them had fled from Germany to South America, seeking out refuge under a cloak of forged anonymity, hiding in the dense jungles that enveloped the continent. Most did little else to cover their tracks, their harsh German influxes butchering the native tongue to such painful extent – like snarling wolves trying to lull the same language as sheep. They sweat more profusely in the exotic heat than those who belonged or had grown accustom to the temperature – though if their perspiration was derived from the weather or from festering guilt – if they could even feel such a human emotion – was a question answered only by God.
In little over ten years, Weiss had tracked down seven Reich fugitives while working alongside MI6. He excelled in his position as an agent, earning a dual reputation as both a ruthless tracker and a gentleman. When the contracts were given, he never flipped past the first page. His people had been only numbers to the Reich - faceless, nameless cattle – meat for the grinder. They were insignificant, and any factors of their lives mattered not to those who had been hell bent on their genocide.
Weiss extended them the same courtesy.
In his heart, he knew that he should rise above their violence – their blatant lack of humanity. The world would not benefit from more cruelty. He had agreed to cooperate with the British after the war because he felt if he was on a more rational, restricted path, that he could restrain the boiling sense of injustice that he was certain would provoke him down a path of vigilantism. During the occupation, he subverted the Nazi’s violence with compassion – working with the resistance to shelter and save as many lives as possible – but rage had gotten him caught and sent to the camps.
In 1944, when the Allies liberated Hitler’s extermination grounds, Erik had sworn to himself that he would not let his anger confine him again.
In late 1954, he faltered.
That man in Argentina he recognized from long ago – a crooked smirking face on the opposite side of barbed wire; always accompanied by several men clad in gas masks, who hummed classical music as he sniffed through the fresh and decomposing corpses for more specimens.
Of the actual incident, Erik could recall very little. The reports plainly stated that Agent Weiss had experienced a brief moment of “bull sight”– a glossed term that meant he had used excessive force and acted on emotions rather than reason. It was true. The bar where he had located the man looked more reminiscent of a raid scene than the near spotless work of an experienced Agent. In the blistering heat, the stench of suffering and death resurfaced in his memory – and that damn smirking face …
In the middle of the fray, there had been a sudden, sharp pain on the left side of Weiss’ neck – it had burned significantly and the sensation spread rapidly through his body until his extremities felt numb. A bitter, metallic taste of blood surged up from the back of his throat, swelling nearly up to his eyes – and then… Mozart’s 22nd symphony; the arch had been wetly hissed as his vision went dark.
When he came to, he was in London and three days had past. His mission, failed. Weiss however, was too valuable to the organization to be put out to pasture for good. He was given a year recovery before his field work would resume.
It took several months of therapy before he was able to speak clearly again– a thick scar and occasional slur the only external reminders of his failure – that, and the sudden, overwhelming lack of a schedule. A farmer’s son, Erik had rarely known a day without work – and now he was faced with seven months of nothing. The very thought made him sick to his stomach, though that well could have been a side effect of the pain medications.
The month leading up to the half year point was eaten up by self-motivated training – exercise, refining his foreign languages, hell he had even taken up a bi-weekly chess match with one of the deskie’s (another former Agent injured in the line of duty, now confined to the walls of HQ) that he had known from his initiation period…anything to make the time pass quickly.
But time crawled, at an agonizingly slow pace – and by the start the sixth month, Erik was stir crazy.
Simon Leigh, his deskie friend, had mentioned during one of their matches that an offer had just been posted to their division by a film production company. “Apparently that Ian Flemming bloke’s collaborated on a film script,” He had said in passing, tongue flickering over his chapped lips as his eyes repeatedly scanned the playing board for any open paths, “They’re looking for someone to train the actor playing Bond how to act like an authentic spy. Isn’t that a kick in the seat? Why don’t they just hire one of us!” His fingers nervously feathered over the King piece, “Suppose we aren’t fancy enough for the silver screen. Bloody James Bond. Most boring name I’ve ever heard…Oh! But I hear Marilyn Monroe’s signed on to be the leading lady!”
That name had caught Weiss’ attention.
The closest movie theatre when he was growing up was hours away from the family farm – and throughout his young adulthood, movies were an expense he could rarely afford. But even a novice film fan would know the name Marilyn Monroe. An ethereal American blonde with a wispy voice, sculpted curves and an innate talent that surpassed those well beyond her years – it was difficult to believe she was a living, breathing soul.
The thought lingered throughout the span of the game – a passing interest at first, something that had intrigued him more than he expected. Marilyn Monroe, here in England. He balled up his fist, leaning on his elbow, pressing his chin to his knuckles to conceal a boyish smirk tugging at his lips. Finally, after twenty four minutes, Simon moved his King piece to the adjacent square. Erik marked him in checkmate immediately and promptly left to contact the production company that had coaxed the angel from her spot in heaven.
The company’s casting director Jasper Leads, who had posted the request, had been delighted to hear from him. Apparently their leading man James Freeman, an up and coming star transferring from stage to screen, conveyed his lines effortlessly with all the charm one would expect from a suave 00 – but his physical delivery was simply not up to par. Allegedly, Mr. Freeman couldn’t believably conceive of the situations his character came up against, and the choreography for the scenes felt too stiff and scripted. They were in desperate need of a “personal touch,” someone to add some oil to Freeman’s otherwise stiff mechanical limbs – and also someone to serve as an accuracy consultant for the time frame as well as for the MI6 organization.
Two weeks into shooting Bond’s solo scenes, Erik felt that the script was relatively sound in terms of its portrayal; however stiff limbs were the least of James Freeman’s problems. For a renowned Shakespearean stage performer, Freeman fell extraordinarily flat. On countless occasions scenes were halted mid shoot because he had “lost the moment” and needed to re-center himself – which more often than not meant drinking a glass of bourbon and taking a nap in his dressing room.
The Friday that Marilyn was due to arrive was one such occasion.
The entire production company was in a flutter, as if the Queen herself were making a private visit. Even Erik had found himself caught up in the flurry of perfection, spending an extra few moments in the mirror that morning making certain he was more presentable than usual. At 6 foot even, he had never held difficulty being noticed in a crowd, nor had he ever remained a stranger to the opposite sex. His colleagues in the agency had fancied to calling him the "statue" - his height playing its recognizable part in that allotted title, albeit Weiss also had a particularly sculpted look about him that made him seem nearly carved from a flesh tinted stone. His jawline and cheekbones were highly pronounced, his muscles finely sculpted despite the bout of undernourishment experienced during the occupation. He had combed his reddish-brown hair back neatly to the side and fastened a white shirt with a higher collar to conceal the jagged scar curled around the front of his throat. Khaki slacks were tucked into military style brown boots that matched his standard issued jacket.
He told himself it was his duty as a representative of MI6 and this production to at least attempt to smooth over Freeman's faults, and that his extra grooming was only partially for Monroe.
Yet still he found himself curiously unsettled as he made his way to the reading room. Nervous was not quite the word - Erik was never nervous. Uncertain, perhaps? Perplexed even, as to why this woman's arrival had roused such a reaction within him. It was not an unwelcome reaction - on the contrary, the stirring warmth made his numb heart feel like there was blood coursing through it once again.
The Director had summoned him, like the other members of the crew and cast, though he was also a standby should Freeman decide he was not quite ready to wake from his second nap of the morning. As he passed through the doors, hands tucked calmly behind his back, he noted the Director at the head of the round table, dabbing his forehead with an overused kerchief. The actors had already taken their seats, the wardrobe and make up girls gossiped in huddle groups - everyone seemed to be buzzing with an unusual amount of energy for such a dreary day on the set of an already exhausting film.
Erik crossed the room quietly to take a place beside Jasper Leads. Like a neurotic white rabbit, he fidgeted with his tarnished pocket watch, looking up from behind thick glasses when his personal space suddenly was no longer his own. The jittery man relaxed however upon noticing Weiss, his thin lips twitching up over small teeth. "Today's the day, mn?" He mused, stuffing the watch back inside of his pocket - fingers still wrapped tightly around the chain.
"It would seem so," Erik smiled gently, uncrossing his arms briefly to adjust the cuffs of his sleeves, "I do hope she's not overwhelmed by all of this,"
"Oh nonsense," Jasper scoffed, rolling back on his heels as his beady black eyes scanned the room, “Our little circus is probably a walk in the park compared to what she’s experienced in America. Besides, why on earth would she be nervous?”
“I doubt I would ever be at ease having a swarm of people waiting for my arrival,” Erik shifted his jaw somewhat, crossing his arms back behind himself, tensing his shoulders and straightening posture – he glanced again towards the giggling girls, clutching their photos of Marilyn. His brow creased in thought – It must be exhausting..
